


amunt

by redandgold



Category: Football RPF
Genre: I know what you're thinking 'are you sure you wrote this fic' and to tell the truth no im not, I'm not even sure if the ending is happy, I'm not sure if this is angst??? or banter??? or angsty banter??? bantery angst???, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-06 07:49:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5408813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redandgold/pseuds/redandgold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things you never thought you'd see: Jamie Carragher tries to comfort Gary Neville after he loses a football game. (In his own way, of course.)<br/>---<br/>At seven forty in the evening, with the Mestalla abuzz and the world (England) in their seats, Gary Neville steps out onto the pitch and breathes the air of club football.<br/>At seven forty in the evening, with crisps in one hand and remote in the other, Jamie Carragher turns on the television.</p>
            </blockquote>





	amunt

**Author's Note:**

> I am unsatisfied!!! dissatisfied?? with this  
> Set after Gary's loss (u cried too didn't u) but jumps back and forth really; I wasn't really sure where I was going so it's a bit sketchy and yeah I'm really sorry :c  
> I stillll hope against hope that you like it ish though <33
> 
>  

 

_i carry your heart with me(i carry it in_

_my heart)i am never without it(anywhere_

_i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done_

_by only me is your doing,my darling)_

 

 

* * *

  

 

At seven forty in the evening, with the Mestalla abuzz and the world (England) in their seats, Gary Neville steps out onto the pitch and breathes the air of club football.

Not red, white; not kit, suit. His face is drained of banter, replaced by the inscrutable, intense mask he always wore. His jaw is set, his fists are clenched, his tie is knotted and straight. Polished shoes click across the grass with purpose, the badge gleams on the lapel, and he doesn’t flinch when the Champions League anthem blares out across the stadium, reminding him of what there is to lose.

At seven forty in the evening, with crisps in one hand and remote in the other, Jamie Carragher turns on the television and is reminded of the same.

The players look fit in their warmup, ready to run anything into the ground. They spread out, two in the circle, the goalkeeper tapping the top of his bar as he runs back. The referee paces the field, checking with his officials before putting the whistle to his mouth. The grass is very green. The lights are very bright. Jamie isn’t looking at the dugout at all.

 

-

 

“This is your fault,” Gary says primly, perched on the edge of the bar stool in his straight-laced suit and tie. Jamie thinks he looks like a fucking angel. “You wanted to go for a _bevvie_.”

“You said okay,” Jamie points out, his slushed-together words not deterring his unparalleled logic. Gary frowns at the glass in his hand. Jamie wonders if he’s going to call a cab for him or drive him home himself.

“I said okay five vodkas ago,” Gary retorts. It’s eleven at night. There’s hardly anyone left in the bar, save for the chalk-scrawled _Liverpool 3-3 Crystal Palace_ that Jamie thinks ought to explain why he’s five vodkas in, only – unfortunately – it doesn’t. Not entirely.

“Ineedt’ tellyousomethng.” This is a sentence made even more unintelligible by considering the accent of the speaker in question. Gary blinks, not quite sure what he’s just heard, not quite sure whether he actually heard anything. Jamie swallows, tries again.

“icarry – your – heart.” This is a slightly better effort, dampened somewhat by the fact that he’s completely forgotten to explain the object (poem by e. e. cummings), method (I took two hours to learn this shit), or meaning (it was going to be how to say I love you without really saying I love you).

Gary grins widely. Infuriatingly. “Carragher, you’re drunk as a cow,” he declares. “It’s almost as funny as watching you play against Zola.”

“s'a poem,” Jamie begins to say, but shakes his head instead, like clearing his brain of a nightmare, or a daydream, or something he could never reach. “N’vr mind. Call me a cab.”

Gary drives him home.

 

-

 

Jamie walks him to the gate. They shake hands and Gary pats him on the back, somewhat awkwardly, you’d think two and a half years would’ve changed that. Jamie grins and promises to call, because he imagines banter between two Manc twats gets a bit boring after a while. Because he’s going to miss his voice, but he isn’t allowed to say that. Gary grins and promises not to hang up, because he’ll just leave the phone there and rack up international charges. Because he’s going to miss him, but he isn’t allowed to say that.

What Jamie is allowed to say is _amunt_ , so he says that, not really knowing what it is. He wonders if it means the same thing as poetry, or if he just wants it to mean the same. When he gets home, he subscribes to BT Sport Europe instead of leeching off of Stevie. It’s nice to feel like it belongs to him.

 

-

 

Valencia explode out of the blocks, coming close to scoring, a header glanced wide and a goal disallowed. Jamie bites his lip as he watches Gary on the sidelines screaming, completely ignorant of the fact that no one can understand him. If he tries, if he really tries, he can hear the broad Mancunian accent in his head, as tall and proud as mountains, the way it flattens out in disapproval if a player is out of position. The way it dissolves into embarrassed chuckles whenever Martin Tyler brings up his playing days, the way it gets sharp and breathless, floating in the air when a goal is scored. He can hear everything, even its silences.

_i carry your heart with me._

“Come on, you twat,” he mutters under his breath. “Come on.”

 

-

 

They lose. 2-0, and Gary hates most of all how he has to stand there like a fool while the interpreter translates his remarks to the blank-faced squad. He wants to hold his hands up and say, I failed, put the blame on me; there are benches and retirements for those things. Instead he must point the finger and place the blame. Phil stands beside him, stock-still, and his twitter account feels dusty.

Tomorrow he’ll return to being comfortable for a while, sitting in his chair watching clips of the game, pretending he’s in the studios again. He wonders briefly why he ever left, if he was comfortable there, then realizes that that was the reason.

He tries to remember what he used to do after losing a game; shower for too long, drive home, sit and stare blankly until one of the girls needed him to smile again. This time there is no consolation even in the fact that he tried (he didn’t, eleven others did), nor in the red of his shirt (it isn’t, it’s crisp and collared).

At home, where the room is empty and quiet and no one needs him to smile, he sits and stares at the phone, thinking about promises a heartbeat ago. He wonders if he should call Giggsy, ask him if this was how he felt after Sunderland. Wonders if he should call Sir Alex, since he could use a good talking-to. Wonders if he should call Phil.

But Phil’s only an adopted Scouser.

 

-

 

Gary picks up on the second ring, and Jamie laughs into the phone. “Desperate, are we?”

“You were the one who called,” Gary shoots back, and Jamie pauses for a while, just to take in the voice he could never really replicate.

“You were the one who lost.”

“What was your result on Sunday again? I can’t seem to remember.”

“Fuck off, Neville. I didn’t have to call, but I thought I’d donate to the Management Failure fund.”

“What are you donating, your league champion prize money? You do know that zero plus zero still equals zero, right – or do they not teach maths where you’re from, just like they skip English?”

“Better not learning maths than embarrassing myself in front of the world. How does it feel to fuck up so spectacularly?”

“A bit like Liverpool, really.”  

“A bit like Moyes.”

“Oi. Low blow, Carragher. Almost as low as Liverpool’s position.”

“Almost as low as you must be feeling, what with both your teams out of the Champions’ League.”

“Hm. Remind me. Were you guys in it to begin with?”

“Five times.”

“Twenty.”

This is easy. This is banter. This is them erasing their heartbreak.

 

-

 

Jamie wakes up the morning after, still in his clothes from the night before. He scratches the back of his head and yawns, undoing what’s left of his tie and shrugging off his jacket. It takes him a while to remember that Nicola and the kids are in Brighton for the weekend, and he has to cook breakfast for himself. Hopefully he won’t burn down the kitchen.

He shuffles into the living room, ignoring Gary sleeping on the sofa. Then he frowns and looks back, his jaw dropping ever so slightly. That isn’t supposed to happen.

It can go one of two ways. Either he behaves normally and takes a picture, then yells rude words in Gary’s ear and blackmails him into oblivion. Or he plays Hugh Grant, goes back to the bedroom, picks up his jacket and drapes it over him, then cooks breakfast.

It goes a third way. Jamie leans against the kitchen counter, just watching. The crook of his neck, the gentle curve of his upper lip. The shallow, steady cadence of his chest, and what must lie beneath. He wants to write this moment (him) into his memory, next to the crumpled paper of his first contract, and the glittering rain in Istanbul.

 

-

 

Gary reads a book on the plane. It’s called Complete Poems by E. E. Cummings.

 

-

 

“I’m glad you didn’t win. You might have gotten so happy you’d kiss a player, and Scholes wouldn’t have liked that. Nor the player, come to think of it.”

“You would be so lucky.”

Actually, I would, but he isn’t allowed to say that.

There’s a pause, then, “Carra?” and the voice is so small and so soft that Jamie isn’t sure, for a moment, that it’s Gary saying it. He swallows, tries again.

(Object.) “You’re a right pain in the arse, you know that. You made me get BT Sport.”

Gary snorts, some of his swagger returns. “Sorry for wasting your money. At least you won't have to watch me failing again. Even though you probably enjoyed it.”

(Method.) “You daft sod. You’ll be alright. I’ll be watching you every week.”

He listens to Gary’s silence.

(Meaning.) “Because, y’know. _Amunt_. However the hell you pronounce it. Whatever the hell that’s supposed to be.”

Gary's breath filters down the phone line, a heartbeat away. He says, “It means up.” It means how to say I love you without really saying I love you.

 

-

 

At two fifty five in the afternoon, with the Mestalla abuzz and the world (Jamie Carragher) in their seats, Gary Neville steps out onto the pitch and breathes the air of club football. His jaw is set, his fists are clenched, his tie is knotted and straight. He listens to the crowd chanting their word in the stadium, hears it with a Scouse accent instead. The grass is very green, and the lights are very bright.

_i carry it in my heart._

 

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. sorry for promising happy carraville then writing this LOL - although I feel it isn't...entirely sad?? maybe?  
> 2\. _Amunt_ is kind of like 'up' as in 'up Valencia' or 'go Valencia' (ngl the first time I saw it Phil tweeted #AMUNT in all caps and I was like...what is AMU national team)  
>  3\. The e. e. cummings poem is the most beautiful thing in the world I [really encourage you to read the whole thing](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poem/179622) if you haven't already!  
> 4\. The game against Lyon kicked off at 7 45pm; Valencia's next game is tomorrow at 3pm *shudders* It's not actually being played at the Mestalla, but I kinda needed the symmetry. /shifty  
> 5\. [I have the best url on tumblr](http://carraville.tumblr.com) (seriously, hit me up! I like crying over players especially Gary Neville :3)  
> 6\. feedback is always welcome and thanks for stopping by <3


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